So Different – So Alike
by Dalara
Summary: Vader/Obi-Wan. One post.


The usual disclaimer applies.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The steel deck of the battle ship clanked dully under the hard steps of black boots. Clang… clang. The frightened echo rushed in the silence of night. The ship slept, drowned in murky twilight. Muffled light, soldiers frozen on their posts. Dead silence. 

Dead. 

He was the only one alive here – but was he truly alive? Clang… clang. Steps. They could be stopped, they could be sped up. He could run, but he could not escape. He could never escape himself. 

His eyes caught an imperceptible movement. The dark shadow flickered, then dissolved in gloom. There again. He was not afraid – he was the one to be afraid of here. Sharp turn. Who's there? Nobody, only a shadow – his own reflection in the wall, polished up to mirror shine. Black reflection of the Dark Lord. 

It had been absolutely different reflection once. Then, in a small mirror in poor frame, which Shmi had held on the bureau in their pitiful hovel. At home. It had been warm there. No, not from the suns of Tatooine. There had been warm from love. From love of the mother to her son. From love of the son to his mother. 

And now there were only stones left. Ruins.

Black mask and black cloak – this was his reflection now. But reflection was blind, it did not see the essence. It was deceitful. Or was it? Was there still a human being somewhere under this mask, was there that Anakin? Or had he disappeared forever? Had he died to never be revived? Where was that boy, who had dreamed to be strong?

The black glove balled into a fist. He looked at his hand. This hand could take a life away in jest, this hand ruled the galaxy. But it was artificial. No flesh, no blood, only a handful of wires. He wanted to dig his teeth into these wires, to pull them out! But no… He unclenched his hand. 

When he took a life it seemed as if it was the hand that brought death, so it seemed to everyone. But he knew that the hand was merely a conductor, only a visible symbol of that power, which he owned, of that force, inspiring superstitious fear. And so was he – just the hand of the Force, just its conductor. He simply had much more power than everyone else. Only no one ever asked him if he wanted this power.

Yes, he had everything in his hands now. But did he actually have anything? Was there someone to give him warmth? Or was there only the cold metal of his armor?

There was no one anymore. And never would be. Never.

Because he was the one. 

The Chosen One.

Darth Vader made a step forward, then another. Tears might have been of some help, but there were no tears anymore. As there was nobody. Not even him

There was only loneliness …

… There was only loneliness. Complete and hopeless, oppressive, gloomy, as clouds before a thunderstorm. But there were no thunderstorms here. No, there could not be thunderstorms on Tatooine, only sandstorms. There was no rain, there was only sand. Sand replacing water – but never capable to be the replacement. Just like the life here could never replace life. The real life.

Heavy dream, the terrible nightmare, and there was no waking up, the only way out was death. Die … Follow them, follow those, who had left earlier. Follow them into the Force and cease to think, cease to exist. 

The calloused hands were covered with wrinkles. The time is relentless. Time and sand. He had lived not too many a year yet he was already an old man. The tired old man. Tired in body and tired in spirit. 

The spirit, could it bear one more another's death? There were too many deaths – and he had felt them all. One after another they had ripped the Force with agony, tore lives as thin silver strings, and the silent moan had echoed in his soul. Each time.

And he simply sat. Sat and waited. He was still waiting. The most difficult thing was to wait. And this was the fate that befell him: to stand aside and wait. 

Sometimes expectation had become intolerable, and he had almost gone insane. Locals considered him a madman. The lips wriggled in a sad smile. Perhaps they were right, and he indeed was a madman? Could it be that he had simply thought all this up? Had thought up to brighten one of those black days, when yet another one had been sent into travel from which there is no return. Another one of friends. 

All his life had he studied to sense the Force, to feel its pulse, its verve. But when it had been torn as the strings on a guitar struck in anger, when the inaudible cries had penetrated his whole being straight to the heart, resonating there for an instant with unmatched pain only to die away forever, then he had cursed everything. 

Yes, he had damned the Force. He had damned the Jedi who had taught him to see the Force, feel it, touch it. He had damned all of them. And those who had left, and those who had remained. And now there was no one.

No – one had remained. He. The one who had been light and had become the darkness. The one who could not handle the talent given to him so generously. 

Or had he, Obi-Wan, failed to handle it?

The gray-haired head lowered. What use there was to think of it now? The past would not return, the future was clouded. The present was sand. Only sand and nothing more. 

Abruptly he lifted his head as though listening. There, in the Force, something had occurred. And he knew exactly what. Luke. Something had happened to him, he needed help. 

Wearily the old Jedi rose to his feet. He had to go and help. Why? Because hope is the last to die. And he would be the penultimate. 

Hope. The hope was hidden somewhere out there, in the dusty vastness of boundless sand, maturing, waiting for the right hour. As a young sprout. And he, the old hermit, was a gardener, obliged to grow the flower, to protect it until the time comes. He had to.

It was his duty …

… Duty. Almost always had he had duty. At first before the Jedi, now before the Empire. And before the Emperor. The duty was everything that remained. There was nothing else left now: neither desires, nor hope. 

At one time he had had life. So long ago that it seemed a beautiful half-forgotten dream. And there had been everything in that life. Or nearly everything. There had been duty too, but there had never been emptiness. And there had been She. The angel descended on earth. The queen, who had come before the little slave in the striking aura of her heavenly beauty. At first she had been with him in his wonderful dreams, then in reality.

And now she was no more. And that boy who had had so many dreams was gone too. Sometimes it seemed if he looked back, if he turned quickly enough he would see him, that boy. But no, this was just another reflection in myriads of mirrors of memory. That boy was in heavy sleep – he wanted to believe that he simply slept. Because the one who sleeps might once wake up. 

But he would not wake up because there was only coldness. That boy detested cold. And he, the present, didn't care.

It was all the same now, whether it was hot or cold. Whether the wind blew or the snow fell. In this costume there was no cold, there was only emptiness. At one time he had wanted the best. For everyone. He had put everything at stake. And had lost everything.

Or had he won?

If so who needs such victory when only ashes of flaring feelings remain? Vestiges around him and ashes in his soul. Once fire had stormed there, now … Now there was only the chill of barrenness and memory.

Recollections were his sole treasure. He could have billions of credits but they were nothing. The only things he treasured were his reminiscences, and he would take comfort in them, play them over and over in his mind to not let the most terrible thing occur – to not let oblivion come. He would make her laughter stay with him, if only an echo of it.

Memories were everything that had remained…

Memories … Bitter and joyful, full of unrestrained triumph and deepest despair. They accompanied him everywhere. They were the pain and they were the pleasure. They were the only present that still existed. He could dive into them headfirst or he could taste them slowly. They were gentle as tinges of silk and sharp as daggers. They could burn and cure. 

Memories belonged only to him. They belonged to him the same way he belonged to them. Now only memories filled his lonely existence. They brought coolness in heat and warmth in cold night. The past was more real than the present. There was no future. 

There was only memory. Remembrance of defeats and victories. Memory about those dear to him and even about enemies. It was all memory. 

There was no sense in it, but he did not search for sense any more. He had a predestination – to protect the hope. And he would fulfill it. But this was it. There was nothing more required of him, and nothing more given to him.

Only memories. And dreams. 

The sleep refreshed, but it also brought another reality with it, another world. And in that, other reality, everything was absolutely different.

He lay down and closed his eyes, light should not interfere. And there they came. The dreams surrounded him, bringing a respite before the following gray – no, yellow – dull day, so similar to the long row of other days.

.

And in these dreams he stood on the grass. Bare feet on the emerald juicy grass near an icy clean crook. And next to him stood the one whom everyone blamed. Everyone but him. He did not blame because he knew …

But here there was no guilt. There was only soft sunlight, the crystalline coolness of water and warmth of forgiveness.

And they stood beside each other…

…They stood beside each other, and there was no place for emptiness.


End file.
